


serenity, after serenity

by aellesiym



Category: Torchwood
Genre: (i think. mainly they just talk about their problems), Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aellesiym/pseuds/aellesiym
Summary: After the events of Serenity Plaza, Jack takes Ianto on a proper holiday – one without aliens.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 25
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The chronology of Serenity seems to have it set after Sleeper, so the pace at which Jack and Ianto's relationship develops is not particularly canon-compliant.

“You called?” Ianto asks, pushing open the glass doors to Jack’s office. He’s been doing this long enough to be able to hide the shivers of anticipation, but it’s midday and the team is _definitely_ still here. So—

Jack gestures him over, pen in hand. “What’d you say to a proper holiday? Wouldn’t be long, just a couple days.”

He blinks. “The aliens will get us. They always do.”

“Is that a no?”

“No. No, that’s not what I meant – I would like to,” Ianto says. “Torchwood can manage without us for a little bit.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” he says, smiling as he pushes aside a stack of papers, leans forward. “I’d almost go so far to say that you’re, doubting them.”

“The rift, they can manage. I’m doubting their ability to go to the dry cleaners.”

“Right, then – I could plan it, give you a break. We leave tomorrow?”

“You’ve booked it already, haven’t you,” says Ianto, amused, and Jack’s grin confirms it. A holiday, though. He can barely picture it, having worked for so long, but he likes the idea of it. “I’ll start packing.”

* * *

The drive up to Pembrokeshire began as a quiet one. Ianto dozes, tuning out the radio’s inane chatter and pop music that could only be described as besotted. He rests his head against the window; watches the stream of traffic as it follows the gentle curve of the motorway.

“How domestic,” Jack says, interrupting his reverie. “Just us, together, not racing off to investigate something. Maybe we should do this more often.”

“You _are_ speeding.”

“Only a little!”

The landscape blurs past them in a medley of green; the trees and fields and farmland blending together under a cerulean sky. There’s the hum of the engine, the whir of the air conditioning, asphalt underneath the spinning tires, wind whipping at the glass; forward, among dozens of other vehicles containing those going about their day, blithely unaware – and unconcerned! – of the people in the other car, the other truck; real, living people with the same thoughts and feelings and fears and joys and sorrows and wants – each never stopping to think about the other; trapped in a bubble of metal and glass; alone and yet, not.

“What would it be like—” Ianto begins, then stops. Tries again.

“What do you think it’d be like, if we weren’t all tangled up with Torchwood?” He falters. “If, whatever we had at Serenity could’ve been real. Like seriously, actually, real.”

“I thought you didn’t like it there,” Jack says, glancing at him.

“I didn’t like that it was a ruse,” he says. Then twists his hands in his lap, blurting the rest out. “That … that it couldn’t last because we had a job to finish.”

“Ianto.”

“Mmm?”

“Do you want to know why I suggested this trip? I thought it’d be nice to, I don’t know, get away from it all – even just for a bit,” Jack says, his voice softening. “And this time, it won’t be an act. Not that it was before, but. Oh, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I think I do.”

They fall silent; the radio continues to play, too quiet for the words to be distinguishable, too loud for comfort; its messages of love – always love – crystal clear, obnoxious in its uniformity; the one-note ballads completely missing the point of it all, of having love, of being loved and in love. Ianto reaches over to turn the volume down, grazing Jack’s sleeve as he does, cotton on wool. It makes Jack shift, his eyebrows raised and a smile playing across his lips. “As much as I want to, I can't be driving distracted now, can I.”

“It's been an hour already. We could … take a rest stop,” he replies, gliding his fingers over Jack’s coat, purposely, this time, feels his arm tense up underneath.

“Maybe we should.”

* * *

They pull up to a small, white brick cottage by the sea, surrounded at all sides by flora – periwinkle forget-me-nots, true to its name; red and white tulips; rosy foxgloves peeking over the shrubbery. A wild cherry tree brushes up against the roof, scattering its snowy petals over the slate shingles; fairy dust in the air; pale blossoms floating down onto their shoulders as they walk up the cobbled path, hand in hand. Reaches the door – turquoise and boxy – and lingers before the threshold.

“Well. This is us,” says Jack, placing a hand on Ianto’s waist, steals a kiss.

“Easy now, we haven’t even gone in yet.”

“Would you rather me in?”

Ianto lets out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes as he pushes the door open.

The interior is filled with worn, varnished wood furniture, knitted blankets, colourful, patterned pillows piled up on every flat surface; memories of clacking needles, a merry hearth, tea, cooling on the table; a bookshelf is pushed up against the wall, bursting with old mass-market paperbacks from well before the new millennia, a scent of vanilla clinging to its pages; well-loved and worn; seizing Ianto’s attention as soon as he enters. Off to the side, a set of wooden steps leads up to the loft; underneath, a kitchen and a small dining area; for early nights and late mornings, gathered around steaming platters, talking about nothing and everything in particular.

“What'd you think?” asks Jack, dropping his luggage onto the floor. “Up to your standards?”

“I … yes, it’s very nice. Thank you.”

“No need,” he says, caressing the back of Ianto’s hand. “I’ll unpack, would you do me the favour of cooking your brilliant lunch?”

Ianto grins. “Yessir.”

Twenty minutes later, the aroma of fresh, roasted vegetables is enough to entice Jack down the stairs and into the kitchen. Ianto ignores him, fussing over a salt shake as Jack snakes an arm around him, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

“Smells delicious,” says Jack. Warmth spreads across Ianto’s chest, its tendrils grasping at his heart.

“Obviously. I’ve baked a pie.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Everyone else,” he mutters, brushing his mouth over Jack’s forehead. “Sit, I’ll bring the plates over.”

They eat in silence – for once, Jack is too enamoured with the food to speak. Afterwards, he piles up the dishes in the sink and sits back down, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’ve not said much.”

“It’s peaceful. I’m not used to it,” Ianto replies.

Jack reaches over and takes his hand, catching his eyes. “Good peaceful?”

“…Yeah. I think so. Guess we'll see.”

As the day wears on, Ianto finds himself on the porch, flipping through a novel that he’s purloined off the shelves. The sea is a cobalt line across the horizon, framed in the evening light, white sails bobbing along its surface as waves crash against the shore; meets rock, spraying foam; meets the sand, lapping up the detritus; seaweed and broken shells and whole shells, rounded glass; water wearing it all away. A gentle breeze ruffles the wind chimes; sends its swaying; leaves behind a tang of salt in the air.

The door scrapes open, then shuts again, “Lovely view out here,” Jack says, bending down to kiss him.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He drapes his arms over the railing, his body relaxing but his shoulders tense. Falsely casual; his eyes glazed with a faraway stare, unseeing, unable to process the here, the now, as he sinks deeper into the recesses of his mind, filled with unopened doors, locked doors, hidden doors. Grasps around for the one to his heart, throwing it open. “About earlier. Ianto, I … I really do care about you.”

Ianto sets his book down, stands and turns to face him. Folds his hands together, white-knuckled, trembling; a void has opened up in the pit of his stomach and he’s drifting, untethered. He desperately, _desperately_ wants to believe him. And yet – yet, “You’ll forget me, though. One day,” he whispers, “one day, in your long, long life, you’ll wake up, and not know me.”

Wind buffets his clothes, rustling the tall grass in shallow, emerald waves; disturbing the chirping insects, sends them scattering; scattering like the pieces of his barely mended spirit, poorly stitched up with mist and plasters and on particularly unbearable nights, a drink or two.

“No. You're wrong,” says Jack, stepping towards him and taking his hands. “I will never forget you, Ianto. Not in a hundred, a thousand years, _never_. And … do you know why?”

Looking at him, Ianto only sees sincerity in his clear, electric eyes; looks away. He can't stand it, the way Jack makes his mind blur when he turns his full attention on him, winding his thoughts into tangles and gripping at the darkness that lives there – the one that he tries so damned hard to push through, to ignore; but – with Jack it surfaces, along with happiness and anticipation and dread; dread of loss, of life, and among it all, an understanding: born from their extraordinary, bizarre circumstances, evolved into something more, to where, as Jack had said, he _cares_. He cares, so much, yet he keeps it trapped inside him, tries not to acknowledge it, in case – in case of what?

Jack pulls him into an embrace. “In all my life, nobody has been able to stay – least of all me. But you, you make me come back. Every time,” he says, and Ianto can feel the rise and fall of Jack’s chest, the buttons of his coat against his shirt, warmth. He rests his head on Jack’s shoulder, an emotion fluttering through his heart that he cannot place—

Safe. He feels safe. After Torchwood – after everything, he almost forgot that he could. He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the distant surf, the crooning seabirds overhead – and starts to tear up.

“Jack … I’m—”

“Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here.” He trails his fingers through Ianto’s hair, cups his cheek. Lightly presses Ianto’s forehead against his. “Whatever happens, I’ll always be here.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Ianto sighs, then kisses him, faint at first; relaxing against his touch; Jack is a solid presence in his arms, sturdy and delicate all at once, an alluring contradiction. Jack’s words – finally hearing him say it, even though he knew, thought he knew, that it was there – unwinds something in him. He pulls away, just a centimetre. “Jack, I – I love you.”

Jack doesn’t reply, only takes a breath.

“Do you believe me?”

“Yeah. I do. Just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. I’ve many people say that to me before, on a whim, and for the most part never felt the same way back.” He leans closer, whispers in his ear. “But you, you keep me grounded. You keep me _here_. Ianto, I love you.”

A shiver runs through Ianto’s body and he grasps Jack's coat, holding him against his chest as he chokes back a sob, Jack's arms wrapped around his waist. The sun begins to set, the light diffusing across the sea and fracturing into a million million crystalline hues, painting the sky in streaks of radiant amber and rose, the waters indigo and gold, blazing.

It only lasts for a few minutes.

“Would you like to head in?” Jack murmurs. Ianto presses closer, tears falling freely. He’s so _warm_ ; so full of life.

“I'd like to see the stars, tonight.”

Jack removes his coat, placing it over Ianto’s shoulders, still warm; he pulls it tighter around himself. “The shore, then?”

Slipping his arms into the sleeves, he nods; takes Jack’s hand; wanders together down the boardwalk, navigating by the ever-dimming light until they reach a low bluff. There, Jack sprawls onto the lush grass and Ianto curls up beside him, his head resting on Jack’s chest; listens to his breathing, feels the heat radiating from his body, the thud of his pulse.

Wishes he could live in this moment, forever.

Twilight fades, giving way to the darkness of night; briefly leaves behind rays of dusty amethyst before disappearing. Pinpricks of light become visible against the inky canvas, invisible lines connecting and weaving together to form patterns, vanishing once more; the moon has risen, a sliver amongst the stars, illuminating the waves below. Jack tells him about the changes, about the minute shifts in the constellations over millennia, about 1604, while he was on assignment, a new star appeared in the sky.

“Turns out, it was a supernova,” Jack says. “The beauty of a dying star, burning up; shining brighter than it ever has before – just to perish.” A quiet sigh escapes his lips. “And when it does, I’ll still be here.”

He falls silent, contemplative and unfocused; there’s a slight shudder of breath, a tightening of his grip; he’s holding back tears, willing them not to fall. Ianto kisses the underside of his jaw, finely, a delicate whisper; and slowly, Jack returns to him; the cool night air lifts away their troubles, temporarily, but vanished nonetheless; and they lie there, underneath a blanket of stars and planets and galaxies, and the remaining wisps of cloud cling to the sea, serene in its simplicity; sonorous in its secrets; silent; ephemeral.

When the moon has risen to its zenith, they retrace their footsteps, haphazardly staggering through the dark. Somehow, Ianto stumbles through a nighttime routine, collapsing onto the bed; he's half asleep by the time he senses Jack’s presence under the covers. He shuffles closer, lacing their fingers together before letting go once more.

“It’s cold,” he grumbles.

“Here.” Jack pulls Ianto into his arms, enveloping him in a cocoon of heat. “Better?”

“...Almost,” he replies, and hauls Jack on top of him.


	2. Chapter 2

When Ianto wakes, Jack is still tangled around him, breathing evenly. The morning glow seeps through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft, ambient light, wearing down the edges. Ianto closes his eyes, his head nestled against Jack's chest, their legs curled together, and feels his body settle in place.

He’ll make coffee later.

For a few, tranquil moments, his mind is clear – he isn’t thinking about the work that has to be done, nor the daily worries and fears that plague his soul – he’s simply present. Present, and in bed with his – his boyfriend, having a lie-in.

He smiles, despite himself. His boyfriend. He likes the way the syllables roll across his head, the way it encompasses so much with so little.

Before long, Jack stirs, vivacity filling his features as he shrugs off the last remnants of sleep.

“Morning, my love,” he says, his voice a low rasp. Ianto turns away, attempts to smother himself with a pillow as his face heats up.

Jack laughs quietly. “Knew you’d like that.”

“Bastard.”

“ _Dearest._ ”

Ianto tosses the pillow at him.

“Okay, okay – I’ll stop,” he says, without the least bit of guilt.

“There’s no bloody way you will, you’ve gotten it into your head now.”

“It’s almost like you want me to keep going.”

Ianto groans. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” Jack murmurs, almost to himself.

“Against my better judgement,” he replies, waiting a beat, unable to keep the smile out of his voice, “yup.” He shifts further into Jack’s arms, indulgent, deliberately aware of the press of muscle encircling his waist, the reverberations in his chest when Jack speaks, the way that he fits beside him like he’s _meant_ to be here, which, he supposes, he is; and his eyes fall shut, letting himself be.

When he opens them again, the light filtering through the semi-opaque curtains has grown brighter and Jack is gazing at him with a languid sort of look, lazily tracing circles across his back; he’s content to do nothing but hold him.

Eventually, they get out of bed and Jack offers to make breakfast. Ianto agrees, on the condition that he leave the coffee alone. “No one touches the coffee machine. Not even you.”

It’s a fry up, laid out on the circular table; light, buttered toast; grilled tomatoes, tart, a smidge acidic, bursting in his mouth; baked beans and scrambled eggs; bacon – salty, savoury, with hints of sugar and fat; sausages; black pudding. Two steaming mugs of coffee bracket the plates, filling the room with its distinct aroma.

“Sleep well?” Jack asks.

“No thanks to you.”

“Hey,” he says, grinning. “Must I remind you that—”

“Point taken,” Ianto mutters, reaching for the fork.

Jack only winks. “More sausage?”

“Would love some,” he says, handing him the plate. Jack finishes his food before Ianto does, stays to keep him company. The conversation turns to idle gossip – they argue over Tosh and Owen, or rather, who noticed it first (Ianto firmly believes that he did, while Jack _says_ that he always knew, well, always in the sense that it was a feeling, you know?), wonders how Rhys is holding up after another week of Gwen working nights ( _he’s survived worse_ , seems to be the consensus), the banalities of paperwork (“Why is there so much?” Jack laments, while Ianto only raises an eyebrow, thinking, _he really has no idea what goes on in the archives, does he_ ), before landing on their mutual irritation of government officials – although Torchwood is ostensibly above them, they're _still_ forced to deal with them on occasion (“Truly horrific, the bureaucracy,” says Ianto, and Jack nods, completely serious).

The midday light slants across the table and Jack leans back against his chair, a satisfied smile on his lips. They’ve run out of topics but still they linger, unwilling to break the easy rapport, settling into a comfortable silence instead. And, when Ianto gets up to refill the coffee, even with his back turned, he can feel Jack’s gaze on him, fond and affectionate.

“Don’t you have some…paperwork to file?” asks Ianto, sliding a fresh cup over. As Jack takes it, he brushes Ianto’s hand, remains there for a moment longer than strictly necessary. Ianto shivers.

“Sure do. Should go do it now, but – it’d be a shame if I was interrupted,” says Jack.

“Mmm. It really would be.”

Later, Ianto ascends up to the loft.

“Busy?” he asks, watching Jack shuffle through reports.

“Not for you.” He crosses the room in a few strides and stops before Ianto, a breath away from touching. Ianto’s back presses against the wall as Jack leans over him, his expression coy.

“Captain.”

“Hello, Ianto.”

“Was there something you wanted, sir?”

Jack skims his hand up Ianto’s shirt, fingers catching at the buttons before resting at his throat. “Depends on what you’re willing to do.”

“Many, many things,” Ianto exhales, letting Jack undo his tie in one deft motion.

“Even this?” he asks as he steps forward, seizing Ianto by the wrists and pinning him back.

Before he can reply, the mobile rings, melodic and shrill.

Ianto sighs and scrambles around for it, accidentally pushing Jack down onto the bed in his haste. He ignores Jack’s smirk as he answers it, acutely aware of his body sprawled underneath him.

“Jack, morning, I know you’re on holiday but—”

He cuts in, breathless. “Tosh?”

“Ianto? We’ve got a situation. Mild situation, really.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been getting unusual rift activity – nothing too serious, but it’s also different from most of the things we’ve dealt with before. Could be—”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. And if it isn’t, I’m sure you can handle it. Bye,” he says.

“Before you go, Owen wants to know how to – wait, why are you – oh. Oh god, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it. Call me back later, if you please.”

She hangs up and Ianto tosses the mobile aside. Jack looks up at him, amused. “Well. This escalated.”

* * *

Torchwood did handle it, as it does.

In the afternoon, Ianto stretches out underneath the cherry tree, Jack lying across his lap – and phones Tosh, listens to her complain about how Owen has destroyed the filing system, _already_.

“I've no idea how we managed before you arrived,” she says. “It's all falling apart now.”

“We'll be back soon, and I'll fix you up with a coffee and proper labels. Promise,” he replies.

“You better. I don't think we say it enough, but – thanks, Ianto. Have a lovely holiday.”

“I'll see you, Tosh,” he says, smiling as he pockets his mobile. Jack nips at his thigh and Ianto strokes his cheek, unable to resist Jack's desire for attention – it's the way Jack just _emanates_ charm, his presence demanding Ianto's full awareness without him even realising it; the way that he, through the sheer force of personality, can make Ianto's heart clench, a cocktail of warmth pulsing through his veins. He wonders what it would be like if they could grow old together, wonders if he could ever tire of Jack's antics, Jack himself; doubts it.

“What're you thinking about?” asks Jack, teasing.

It slips out before Ianto can really think about it. “You.”

“Me?” Jack says, yet he doesn't look the least bit shocked.

“Well, yes, and also,” Ianto says, gesturing vaguely. “Also, about all this. If this was our life – just a regular, mundane life – could we be happy, like this?”

“I think we'd be two very, very different people, if we had normal lives. But I don't see why we couldn't be content with it, if we didn't know anything else.”

“Guess so. If anything, I'm just – just glad that my life brought me here, with you,” says Ianto, falling back against the tree, his head tilting upwards – sees rays of light filter through the blossoms, soaking them in a mottled, golden glow; the shadows shifting with a billowing breeze. He doesn’t need Jack to reply, he realises – only wants him to _know_. And when Jack looks back up at him, his eyes warm and incandescent, Ianto’s suddenly certain that the sentiment is mutual.

He takes Jack's hand, and holds it against his heart.

After, when dinner has been devoured and the sun has set, Jack lights the fireplace while Ianto makes hot chocolate, the faint scent of wood-burning smoke mingling with the sweetness of the cocoa, the ancient gramophone humming away in the corner, mellifluous.

When the chocolate is ready, Ianto lounges on the patchwork sofa, Jack’s arms around his waist as he reads, nestled between the cushions. The book isn't great, merely interesting; some modern retelling of an old Greek myth – great fodder for lighthearted complaining; relishes Jack's smile when he does.

He reaches the last chapter. “… it ends with a bang. Not that kind, unfortunately. Everyone dies, except that one guy who was smart enough not to do the thing that everyone else did.”

A shadow passes over Jack’s expression, fleeting, almost unnoticeable; it’s the way his eyes blur, anguish lurking behind a practised glance; the same façade he slips into when he’s in front of the team, making the decisions that only he is willing to make. Ianto sees through it immediately; has watched it crack before when Jack thinks no one else is around. “Jack,” he begins, hesitating. “How many have you lost?”

“Books? There was that one—” He stops, noticing his tone. “Sorry. What’s brought this on?”

“Not sure. I’ve just been thinking, it can’t possibly be easy.”

“You know the answer,” says Jack, holding him tighter. “Too many. Far too many.”

It takes him a minute before he speaks again; sips his drink and swallows it, hard. “Someday, I’ll lose them all. But I have to live with it. I have to. I’ve got no choice.” His voice breaks, as he looks at Ianto. “And sometimes, sometimes when the stars align and everything falls into place, I meet someone like you. That _has_ to be worth it – all these losses – to meet you, even just this once. I don’t know how I would cope, otherwise.”

“Jack—”

“When you’re gone, what am I supposed to do?” He laughs, bitter and sardonic. “Keep going, that’s been given to me, but for what purpose – to wait and suffer?”

Ianto only listens; words aren’t enough to reassure, to comfort; besides – he doesn’t think he can. Instead, he reaches up and kisses him, weak and full of longing.

Jack returns it, lingers briefly.

“They haunt me, Ianto. _’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all_ , they say – but they don’t have to carry the ghosts of a thousand lifetimes in their hearts.” He sighs, finishing the chocolate. Sets it down.

Ianto stares at the dregs, watching the liquid pool. “Would you have chosen this? This life, without limits.”

“If you had asked me a long, long time ago. Perhaps. I’m still not sure about it now,” he says, his eyes welling up. “But I wouldn’t give you up for the world.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Ianto murmurs, his throat dry.

“And I don’t want to stay.” Jack looks up at the ceiling, exhaling with a shudder. “How ironic. The immortal wants death’s blessing.”

Ianto simply holds him, brushing away his tears.

The fire continues to smoulder.

Eventually, Jack gets up to pour two glasses of wine. Ianto pulls a few books off the shelves.

They settle back down onto the sofa; a minor re-arranging of limbs. Stays there, for the rest of the night.

The next day, Jack is quieter than usual. Not out of malice, nor anger, but a deep, dull pain that seems to hang in the air, freed from the shackles of his heart. Ianto presses a kiss to his forehead, passing him a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” he says, turning away. Then looks back, and takes Ianto by the wrist. “Will you stay? Please.”

Wordlessly, he sits down, letting Jack rest against him.

“I love you, Ianto.”

“I know, Jack. I love you too.”

Jack runs his fingers through Ianto’s hair, his touch gentle and soothing. “How're you holding up?”

“I’m glad we’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“I think…I think I'm getting better. It hurts less to live, these days,” Ianto says, drawing his legs up onto the cushions. “I’ll probably never be rid of it, this all-consuming _ache_ , but. It’s no longer strangling me, and I've got Torchwood to thank for that.” He pauses. After Canary Wharf, he was set adrift – his entire life destroyed, his past mangled so beyond repair that he could not even begin to start. So he left for Cardiff, weighed by guilt and sorrow. Desperate. And yet— “It's been magnificent, you know? Tosh and Owen and Gwen and – and you,” says Ianto, his hand playing across Jack’s thigh. “You’ve brought something wonderful to my life.”

“And you to mine,” Jack says, gazing at him, and all at once Ianto is reminded of the sea – of the fierce, roiling waters that nuzzle his skin and swath him in a frigid, tender embrace; delicately torrid in its kindness; of solace; relief; affection.

Unlost, for the second time in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

Ianto heads into town, alone, and among other supplies, returns bearing flowers; pure, snowy petals curving gently over verdant stems. As he approaches the door, a faint melody drifts through the walls, grows louder as he pushes it open.

Jack lights up when he enters. “What's the occasion?” he asks, pulling him into a hug. The bouquet nestles between them, its mild fragrance filling the slight space.

“Wanted to make you smile, that's all,” says Ianto, fully distracted by Jack’s touch.

“You don’t need flowers to do that,” Jack says. _Just you_. “But, they're lovely. Thank you.” Despite his words, he's grinning uncontrollably, and Ianto can't help but smile back – Jack is nothing less than devastating when he is delighted; iridescent.

With a whirl, Jack places the flowers in a vase, keeping one, setting the rest aside; returns to face him. “Ianto,” he says, offering him the flower. “May I have this dance?”

“It'd be my pleasure,” replies Ianto, as he breaks the stem and tucks the blossom behind Jack’s ear, its white petals brushing his temple. He takes his proffered hand and presses a kiss against his knuckles. Jack covers Ianto’s hand with his own, holding him against his chest; Ianto falls into step with ease, slotting perfectly between Jack's arms, his face buried in his shoulder. As Jack guides him around the room, Ianto lets the rest of the world slip away; it’s only him, with Jack, and the soft, dulcet music from a century past. No aliens, no death, none of that.

Only Jack.

He remembers the day they met, that scuffle in the woods; still trapped by the guilt and pain and misery but shamelessly flirting; giving in to the part of him that wanted, needed, human connection; remembers all the times that he propositions Jack, a suggestive glance hiding that nervous twinge, his quickened pulse; falling for him yet again when he readily agrees, giving him what he craves; and still, there are the times when Jack holds him, a hand on his back – like now – or, Jack’s arms around him, comforting, grounding him when he’s lost in his own head, shielding him from everything, especially himself; the times where he wakes in Jack’s bed, nestled against his chest, feeling like he _belongs_ , for once; gentle kisses, tender, filled with warmth; kisses that are hot and hungry, driven by desire; then, there are the words whispered late into the night, confessions of longing, torment, felicity – most of all, though, within it all: love.

The room is quiet save for the rustle of steps, wood creaking, delicate music and hands touching, the cotton of Jack’s shirt brushing his cheek, an arm around his waist, snug.

There’s so much that Ianto will never know about Jack’s life – his past, for starters, and all that comes with it – but in this moment, knows that he doesn’t need to; he’s simply Jack, and, in the end – isn’t that all that matters? That Jack cares, and that he’s willing to try – really, truly, _try_ – for him; despite the odds, despite everything, Jack still has hope.

A dangerous thing to harbour, hope.

Eventually, the melody fades out and Jack doesn’t let go, hugs him tighter instead. “Oh…Ianto.”

Ianto cups Jack's head in his hands, gliding his thumb over his cheekbones before pulling Jack in for a kiss.

“It'll be okay. We can make the most of it – that's all we can do, really.”

“I know. But it still—”

“—hurts, doesn't it,” says Ianto, smiling sadly.

“Yeah,” Jack replies, meeting his eyes. There’s a beat, and Ianto finds himself tugged towards the sofa, insistent, Jack’s fingers finding his belt. “Ianto, please. Will you help me?”

“Always, Jack” he says, breathless; he’s falling back against the cushions and then Jack is kissing him, relentlessly, his mouth hot against his skin, his weight pressing down on him; he’s unbuttoning Ianto’s waistcoat, his shirt, pushing the fabric aside, hands finding his waist, playing across his ribs, and Ianto lets him, lets him kiss the underside of his jaw, his neck, trailing down to his collarbones, lets Jack have his way with him, melting under his touch, head tilted back, lips parted; completely, utterly captivated him, his caresses, grazing, never enough, and Ianto wants more,  _ so _ much more – more time, more life, more  _ Jack _ – and Jack understands, gives it all to him, with his hands, his mouth,  _ everything _ , gives him warmth and passion and comfort all at once and Ianto can’t take it any longer, splintering, caught in this moment; dissolves in Jack’s arms.

And afterwards, Jack puts his heart back together again, one piece at a time, picking up the fragments that Ianto never bothered to, the ones that have lodged under his skin and stayed there, untended, the ones that hurt too much to touch, the ones that he’s never noticed, and through it all,  _ I love you, Jack, I really do _ , and Jack  _ understands _ , understands his pain – oh, the never-ending pain – but most of all, understands his love and doesn’t take it for granted, can’t –  _ Ianto, I came back for you, I always will _ – and Ianto finally begins to cry, letting go.

* * *

The seashore in the evening has an evanescent quality to it; as the sun dips down, Ianto clutches Jack’s hand, pressed up by his side, ankle-deep in the surf. Water laps at his legs, cold but refreshing, unable to reach the rolled-up fabric of his trousers. Slanting rays of light reflect off the sea, shimmering and crystalline, and when Ianto looks over at Jack, he’s backlit by the golden beams, his edges ethereal. He’s wearing a plain button-up, loose at his throat and haphazardly tucked, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He’s breathtaking.

Jack lets go of his hand to snake an arm around his waist, pulling him closer, and Ianto smiles, averting his eyes as Jack presses a kiss on his temple.

“I love you,” Jack whispers, grazing his ear with his lips. “And I’m going to keep saying it for as long as I can, _because_ I can. And I’ll keep saying it, long after. Ianto, I love you.”

Ianto takes a trembling breath, a nameless emotion sparking inside him. Ineffable, really; this feeling that stole his heart, seeping into the cracks and the shadows and somehow, without his realising, seals them, chases them away. “God, Jack,” he murmurs, “you’re the best thing that’s happened to me.” He shifts, and the sand under his feet moves with him, swirling in the water before settling back down, soft between his toes, and then Jack is kissing him and Ianto thinks that he’ll never not be surprised at how right it all seems, that Jack’s hand is tangled in his hair, the other on the small of his back and he starts to smile; he can’t help it – not when Jack is also smiling, his lips velvet against his own, achingly delicate; and, when Jack pauses, still beaming, Ianto’s close enough to feel the brush of his breath, not enough to touch; he’s elated and a bit dizzy and manages to say, “I’m a lucky bastard, aren’t I,” before leaning in again.

And soon, the sun meets the horizon, hesitant, a blazing vermillion disc coating the sky in its brilliant, vivid shades, spreading its glittering tendrils through the waves. Jack tugs him further into the water and Ianto lets him, no longer caring about wet clothing. They wade towards the jutting rocks and Jack scales it with ease, grinning wildly. “You coming?”

“Definitely.” The rock scratches his palms as he hauls himself up, Jack steadying him when he reaches the top. Ianto sits, curling up between Jack’s knees, against his chest. “We go home tomorrow, don’t we.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure how you’d react, so – I thought I shouldn’t push it,” Jack says, twining his arms around Ianto. The wind picks up and Ianto shivers, nestling closer.

“You should, next time.”

“Next time?”

“There’ll be a next time. Well, as long as you don’t run off with that Doctor of yours, again,” says Ianto. He’s only half-joking.

“I won’t. I have no reason to. Not with you,” Jack says, and Ianto is struck with an inexplicable certainty that he truly means it.

“Will you tell me about him?” he eventually asks, lost in Jack’s embrace.

“He was extraordinary. The most fascinating man I’ve ever met. He’d run around with that TARDIS of his and whisk us off through time and space – it was amazing. He barely looked twice at me. And – we didn’t exactly have the best of reunions.” Jack seems almost wistful, the way he says it, but Ianto can hear the melancholic undertones, can scarcely imagine the depth of his pain nor what happened to him. _He’ll talk when he’s ready_ , he thinks, folding his hands over Jack’s arms, tracing his fingers across his skin.

“We saved the world, though,” says Jack, after a pause.

“Ah, yes. My hero.”

Jack laughs. “It was worth it in the end, to be able to come back to you.” He grows quieter. “And I’d go through it all again if I had to.”

“Pray that you don’t,” Ianto murmurs. “I don’t know what they did to you, but sometimes … sometimes I see you and I just _know_ you’re thinking about it, that _year_ , and I can’t – I can’t help you.”

“Ianto, you don’t have to make it right. No one can.” Jack’s voice catches, but he’s no longer trying to hide it. “Just … thank you. For staying with me.”

“‘Course,” replies Ianto, leaning back. “Where else would I go?”

They sit in silence for a while. Light fades, turning to night.

A brilliant streak of light trails through the sky, just the one, burning up as it falls.

“You should make a wish,” says Jack, and Ianto can feel his voice resonating through his chest, low and steady. He’s already got one in mind.

“I wish—”

“It's okay, you don't have to tell me.”

“I want to. I wish – I wish that, when I'm gone, you'll … you'll have a wonderful, beautiful life,” he whispers.

“Oh…Ianto. I—” He doesn't finish; begins to cry in that silent, quiet way of his. “And I wish we had more time together.”

Ianto closes his eyes, kisses his cheek.

The star winks out. They stay there, entwined.

At some point, Ianto dozes off, waking to Jack’s voice. “Let’s go back.”

He nods and Jack climbs down, Ianto following him. The rest is all a blur, really – there’s some splashing and then they’re back on the shore – he vaguely remembers fussing over Jack’s shoes, but why? – and then they’re back inside and he’s showered, lying on the mattress.

“Jack,” he says, rolling over. “c’mere.”

“Gladly,” mumbles Jack, folding him in his arms. “Goodnight, Ianto.”

“Night, Jack.” He reaches over, turning the lamp off with a click. Closes his eyes.

Jack sighs. “I’ll miss this,” he says, so softly that Ianto almost doesn’t catch it. He probably thinks that he’s already asleep.

“You can stay at mine’s, when we get back,” Ianto whispers.

“I’d … like that. A lot.”

* * *

Returning to the Hub was a surreal experience.

As they stand in front of the cog door, Ianto feels like he’s been away for much longer than a few days. He glances at Jack, who vocalises his thoughts. “This is weird.”

“Yeah. You never take holidays.”

“If _I_ don’t, what does that say about you, hm?” Jack says, with a teasing smile.

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Fair enough. Though, I think I get why people do now. It’s not half-bad.”

“Only half?”

“Mmm. Understatement tends to bring out the best in you,” he says, winking.

“Glad you noticed.”

“Always. Ready?”

Jack nods. “Let’s go deal with some aliens.”

“Wait.” Ianto flexes his hand, hesitating.

Laces their fingers together.

The door rolls open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! you can find me on tumblr @[aellesiym](https://aellesiym.tumblr.com/), come say hi :D


End file.
